


never say never (and other contradictions)

by riahk



Series: (bring me a) higher love [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Cunnilingus, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends With Benefits, Light Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn with Feelings, Strap-Ons, Trans Male Character, Trans Sylvain Jose Gautier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 00:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30013272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk
Summary: Sylvain struggles playfully against her movements, laughing against her lips. “Maybe I like making you work for it,” he says. He gives up some ground, setting a knee on the mattress beside her and placing himself well within her reach. When Dorothea migrates her hands lower he grabs both her wrists, tutting. “Sodesperate, dearest,” he teases. He leans closer, lips brushing the soft skin below her ear. “How am I supposed to deal with such unruliness?”Dorothea’s arms quiver in his grip, breath unsteady. But she swallows, calming herself, and her legs squeeze assertively, threateningly around him. “You may need to…restrainme, sweetest.”Sylvain and Dorothea have a good thing going: casual, easy, no strings attached. Alright, theremightbe something more developing, and Sylvainmightjust be too curious about his new bedmate for his own good. But if he’s going to ruin his perfect arrangement, he’ll at least try to do it in the sexiest way possible.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: (bring me a) higher love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2207835
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	never say never (and other contradictions)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I bring more deity AU content! This is technically a sequel to the previous work in this series, but it’s not a must-read this one (though if you like this pair then I encourage you to check it out!)
> 
> In this story, Sylvain and Dorothea are both deities: Dorothea a goddess of music and mortal desire, and Sylvain a god of love, lust and facade. Due to the nature of this AU and the infinite possibilities of god-powers, there’s some magical body modification involved here, and Sylvain is effectively trans in this story. AFAB terms are used to refer to him.

Sylvain knows things, but this fact is often easy to forget. He is beautiful, a deity of love, of pretty words and pleasurable feelings. He is also something else, something more than a feast for the eyes and a sopor for the mind; but Sylvain accepted long ago that, like the deceptively unruly love he embodies, he is fated to be oversimplified.

Some days he is happy to submit to these misunderstandings, to shed each complex layer one by one until his state of being is smooth, easy, breathtaking in its uniform triviality. On other occasions he wants to go dark and disorderly like a storm, buried deep in convolutions and tangled up in uncertain truths. Most of the time he drifts somewhere in the middle. Tonight — or today, or whatever word is appropriate to describe the various configurations of the heavenly realm — Sylvain rides the pendulum between two extremes.

From the balcony of his room, he watches the shifting sea of colorful clouds expanding endlessly towards the horizon, stars blinking to life against a cooling gradient of sky. He has many homes in many places: temples and shrines scattered across the mortal plane, or celestial palaces like the one he finds himself in now. Compared to the human world, where Sylvain spends most of his time attending to prayers and following exciting trysts or twisted romantic threads, the heavens provide a much quieter setting conducive to contemplation. Or, as will be the case soon, entertaining certain guests.

Pensivity weighs on him, even as a deluge of stray thoughts is slowly drowned out by a melody he can't shake and a carnal desire brewing in his belly. The music, at least, is only half in his head. A string section first, this time, backed by a whispering rhythm that swims around his ears alongside a breeze caressing his deep-red hair. Sylvain has tried to decipher Dorothea's symphonic language, tried to equate instruments to moods and chord progressions to intents, but there is no discernable pattern he can reason out. Always he has to feel it. That's what the goddess responsible has insisted, anyway.

“I can see you attempting to translate,” she remarks from behind him, clicking her tongue to the beat of her soft footsteps on the marble. Sylvain peeks over his shoulder briefly, catching a glimpse of Dorothea's curved silhouette, a flash of jade against porcelain framed by a wavy curtain of hickory. He turns back to the opposite view, leaning his elbows against the railing and preparing himself. Petal-soft palms curl around his waist and bump along his ribs, smoothing over his bare chest as her lips draw to his ear. “Lost in your head, again?” she whispers.

She’s sharper than others give her credit for, and he likes that. “You’re learning, sweetheart,” he says, melting his body into hers and curling fingers over her knuckles. Dorothea shifts around his side, a hand lingering delicately on his shoulder as she wedges herself between him and the balustrade, tempting his gaze. Sylvain looms close, admiring her face, wondering if she glowed like this as a mortal, too.

“Don’t patronize me, darling,” she chides, though the surrounding music remains smooth and low, so he knows she’s only teasing.

The pet names are a remnant of their first encounter, a tongue-in-cheek habit they've kept alive throughout the numerous meetings that followed. It's how they stay in character, how they maintain the charade. ‘Baby’, ‘dearest’, ‘honey’ — ‘lover’, even, but never ‘love’, a distinction that Sylvain is perhaps too acutely aware of.

He takes a moment to drink in the sight of Dorothea, the low neckline of her dark slip encased in a translucent carmine robe that hangs off one shoulder, fabric edged in a gold trim matching the bangles and necklaces adorning her, reflecting the natural luminescence of her skin. The metal makes a pleasant, percussive clink as she gracefully twirls her wrists, tapping her nails against the edge of his jaw. “Always a pleasure to see you, Sylvain,” she purrs, bringing his lips to hers.

When she says his name, and when he says hers, he can almost feel the illusion breaking, pushing the limits of their game. Sylvain leans into Dorothea’s embrace, mouth hungry, tongue pushing between her teeth; she tastes like how he imagines sound might, vibrant like spiced wine and infinitely more intoxicating. He moves to pull her closer, but Dorothea is faster, proves more wanting. Her hands claw at his neck and hair, and once she’s certain he won’t peel his face from hers they move down to cup his ass, grinding their hips together.

Realization blooms on her face as she rocks him against her. “Different hardware this time,” she observes with a curious lilt, sliding a hand to Sylvain’s front and feeling him up over the cloth of his pants, exploring the outline of his labia excitedly. She swallows his light moan in another kiss, returns it with a pleased hum of her own as she continues to tease him with her fingers.

“I like to switch it up every once in a while,” Sylvain says, bucking against her hand as he reaches for her breasts. Her touch is making his pulse race and his breath grow ragged, her own quickly following suit. “But damn, Dorothea, you’re eager,” he continues, pressing his forehead against hers. “More so than usual. What’s the rush?”

“No rush,” she huffs. “You’re just… extra irresistible today.” As if to prove her point, Dorothea digs her free hand into Sylvain's hair, tugging his head roughly to the side and trailing sloppy kisses along his throat.

“I’m flattered,” he sighs, relishing the ferocity building in her movements, the heat in her breath as she engraves bite marks into his skin.

Her hand on his cunt also gets more aggressive, drawing rough circles around his entrance. Sylvain's control wavers, barely resisting the urge to guide her under the fabric and feel her fingers directly. “Why do you ask?” she adds with a giggle, her fingers encouraging his need, evident in the way he presses against her. “Did you have another activity in mind?”

“I– actually–” His breath hitches, finding it difficult to speak as Dorothea begins to focus on his clit, her fingers deftly working even through a barrier. Sylvain stifles a moan, his forehead falling to her shoulder. “I was thinking we could entertain some light conversation,” he manages, though the way he's now clinging to Dorothea certainly isn't convincing, even to himself. His physical need battles against a deeper hunger, a more fundamental fascination that Sylvain cannot shake.

Dorothea’s incredulous laughter pulls him back from the thoughts threatening to drown him. “The god of lust wants to _talk_?” she asks, her hand slowing in surprise. Sylvain whines involuntarily, once again betraying his unavoidable desire as she leans away to meet his gaze. “How novel. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were—”

He takes her lips before she can finish, circling a hand around her wrist and guiding her touch away. Dorothea seems satisfied enough with the change of pace, draping her arms over his shoulders while Sylvain grips her waist and spins her away from the edge of the balcony. “You’d say I’m what?” he breathes, walking her slowly backward toward the threshold of his bedroom.

Her dancer’s feet follow his lead effortlessly, but Dorothea’s words stumble. “Nothing,” she mumbles, her fingers fidgeting behind his head. She stares at him and Sylvain sees his conflicted curiosity reflected in her eyes. “I forget how much of an enigma you are, sometimes.”

The cool stone beneath their feet is replaced by the soft sensation of woven rug; the dimming light obscures the minute details of their expressions, shrouding them in the proper amount of mystery. “And I forget that you are the embodiment of want,” Sylvain remarks as the backs of Dorothea’s knees bump against the edge of the bed. Her arms slide away as she sinks down into the plush, Sylvain hovering above and resting his hands on her shoulder. “Uncontrollably so,” he whispers, kissing her again. Slowly, deeply, with a rich affection that washes over his body and holds him on the precipice of pleasure.

“You’ve never complained before,” Dorothea says, equally soft.

“I’m not complaining now, either,” he retorts.

Her hands are groping at his bare chest and stomach again, one leg curling around his calf as she tries to bring him down onto the bed with her. “Then what’s got you so hesitant?” she asks impatiently.

Sylvain struggles playfully against her movements, laughing against her lips. “Maybe I like making you work for it,” he says. He gives up some ground, setting a knee on the mattress beside her and placing himself well within her reach. When Dorothea migrates her hands lower he grabs both her wrists, tutting. “So _desperate_ , dearest,” he teases, the epithet helping to clear his head even as Dorothea’s whine makes his arousal surge. He leans closer, lips brushing the soft skin below her ear. “How am I supposed to deal with such unruliness?”

Dorothea’s arms quiver in his grip, breath unsteady. But she swallows, calming herself, and her legs squeeze assertively, threateningly around him. “You may need to… _restrain_ me, sweetest.”

He’s glad she can’t see the surprise that flashes across his face at the suggestion. Gathering himself, he pulls away from her shoulder so he can look her right in the eyes with a smirk. “That… can certainly be arranged.” He pushes her softly onto her back, curls splaying across patterned silk. “You'll consent to being my plaything for the evening, then?” he asks, scanning her up and down.

She nods slowly but enthusiastically, and Sylvain rises triumphantly to a stand. “Excellent,” he purrs, enjoying the dazed satisfaction creeping over Dorothea's face. “Be a good girl and seat yourself at the head of the bed, would you?” he requests with a wave of his hand before making his way to the wardrobe.

After a quick search through his collection, he returns with a pair of leather and gold cuffs and an equally sophisticated spreader bar that Dorothea eyes flirtatiously. She relinquishes her arms delicately and Sylvain fastens her wrists to the headboard, body trembling with anticipation. “So cooperative,” he says with a grin, planting a kiss to her temple before scooting back to address her legs. Dorothea emits a low hum as the restraints click into place and Sylvain meticulously arranges her: knees spiked up and canted outward, thighs open and inviting.

“Comfortable?” he asks as he runs his hand along her bare leg, touch lingering at the hem of her skirt, pushing the fabric up so she’s very nearly exposed. Dorothea exudes a palpable longing as he taps his fingers along the vulnerable flesh of her inner thigh.

“Very,” she replies, eyes glazing over with arousal; he can tell she wants him closer, that she’s fighting her impulse to command him. Dorothea likes to be in control, or at least to share it equally, so Sylvain is still adjusting to this uncharacteristic surrender. But as he makes his way over the curve of her hip, slowly caressing her waist, he slips into authority with ease. Tangible desire pools in the wake of his touch, perfect fuel for his impending plans.

“We'll have to change that,” he mutters, lifting his hand away and setting his shoulder leisurely against the headboard; Dorothea turns her head to look at him pleadingly. “I'm going to have fun watching you squirm,” he adds with a chuckle. Her breath catches when he taps a finger casually against her chin, moving in as if to kiss her but stopping short. An almost moan creaks from her lips, and he wonders how long he can hold her like this, right on the edge of breaking. With the heat building in his own stomach, the sight of her bound might overtake him first.

“How badly do you want me to touch you, Dorothea?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it, chewing her lips coyly. He thinks he sees defiance brewing behind her eyes; the prospect of it only makes him more excited. His gaze drops to scan over her body and he walks his fingers slowly over her leg again, hand disappearing beneath her skirt and inching closer to her cunt. She maintains her composure at the contact, impressively so. “What's wrong?” Sylvain asks. “Feeling shy, suddenly?”

When she holds her silence, he retracts his hand with a shrug. “Well, if you're not interested…”

“Sylvain,” she breathes, leg shaking as his palm rests on her knee. “Please– please stop teasing me.”

He flashes her a smirk. “Oh, is that what I'm doing?” In an instant his hand moves straight back to her warmth, fingertips pressing into slick folds and eliciting a sharp gasp. It morphs into a string of low moans as he draws circles around her entrance. “I'll show you teasing,” he says, voice low as he pushes away from his seat and swings a leg over hers, grinding himself against her thigh while his hand maintains the steady motion. “We can take this real slow,” he continues, rocking his body forward and bracing against the headboard with his free hand, while the other slips a finger gently inside her. “Or maybe, if you beg me, I'll treat you like the slut you clearly are.”

Dorothea squeezes around his finger, and again he can tell she needs more — sweat is beading along her temple and she's struggling to control her breathing. It's a curiously strong reaction, considering how little Sylvain has done thus far. “You must really enjoy being tied up, Thea,” he muses, keeping his eyes trained on her face — her glassy eyes and slightly parted lips speak volumes even through her abnormal silence. “If I'd known you liked playing the submissive so much, I would have done this ages ago.”

“I suppose I don't give off the energy of someone who wants to be bossed around,” she finally says, hips bucking forward to urge Sylvain deeper. “But this is your area of expertise, isn't it? You know exactly how to satisfy someone, Sylvain. May as well see what you do when given free reign.”

At that he laughs, thrusting his body forward in time with his finger pumping, slightly faster than before. “Oh, you're in good hands, beautiful,” he assures her, kissing her cheek. “Though you look like you want more. Won't you speak your mind for me?”

This time she doesn't wallow in silence. “More fingers, please,” she replies. “And—”

“One thing at a time,” Sylvain interrupts, fulfilling the first request and inserting two more fingers into her. “Patience is a virtue,” he adds, more softly, even as his thumb brushes against her clit.

A wavering wine suggests he's anticipated her next ask correctly. “Fuck, Sylvain,” she huffs, pressing into his touch as much as she can. Her face flushes and Sylvain feels himself grow hot, well aware he'll need to attend to his own needs soon. “Don't stop,” she begs.

“I'll consider it,” he says, pumping more aggressively, rubbing her into a frenzy. Dorothea's moans grow louder and Sylvain's vision blurs at the edges when he focuses on her — one of the many ways he can perceive someone's release is approaching. “Or…” he trails off as his hand stills and he pulls out of her, leaning back and relishing her disappointed whimper. “I can enjoy the way you look at the height of your wanting,” he finishes, meeting her eyes as he licks his fingers. Before she can let loose a complaint, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her hard, his lower half grinding over Dorothea's trembling leg.

When he pulls away there is frustration mixed in with her lingering pleasure. “Do you enjoy torturing me like this, dear?” she asks, as soon as her mouth is free of his wandering tongue.

“Absolutely,” Sylvain replies, cradling her chin in one hand while the other dips under his waistband, his fingers swimming through his own slick. “But don't worry. I'll take care of you very soon, sweetie.”

Dorothea's pleading eyes stare him down silently as he pleasures himself, enjoying the friction of her leg beneath him in addition to the fingers he's shoving into his entrance. “So quiet, pet,” he coos, inching closer. His knee barely brushes her cunt and he can see her struggling to press against him, desperate for some contact. “Tell me: how do you like being at my mercy?”

“It's a dream,” she sighs. “To let you touch me as much… or as little as you want…” She whines as Sylvain speeds up his grinding, rocking her body helplessly against the headboard. “I would deprive the entire world of music, just to let you keep me here for your own selfish purposes.”

Sylvain hums, the words nearly sending him over the edge, but he manages to control himself. He wants to enjoy this moment a bit longer. “You would offer yourself as a permanent fixture in my temple? That makes me unbelievably happy,” he growls, leaning forward to kiss her again. “I would have so much fun ordering you around, using you whenever I wanted,” he mumbles, taking his mouth down Dorothea's neck and over her collar bone, nudging the loose cloth of her dress aside to suck on her breast. He can feel her chest heaving against his lips, hear her lilting sigh as he teases his teeth along the hardened bud of her nipple.

“I would give you complete control,” Dorothea continues, burying her face in his messy hair as he continues to lavish her tits with attention, her cunt still twitching with desire. “To have you decide when and how much I get to come… I can think of no better way to utilize my immortality than by acting as your devoted toy.”

“Fuck,” Sylvain hisses, overcome by the impressive power Dorothea's voice has on him, holding him captive with her tantalizing scenarios. “You're doing such an excellent job already, Thea,” he huffs, slowing his movements and rising to look at her with dazed eyes. “I'm just about taken care of — thank you for waiting,” he says through rough breaths. “Here,” he mutters, lifting his hand to her lips and nudging his soaked fingers into her mouth. She moans at the unexpected gesture but sucks the digits dutifully. “That's it — earn your reward,” he whispers, pressing his fingertips against the sides of her cheeks and feeling her suppress a gag.

He frees her mouth and moves his hand slowly down the center of her body until he is at her cunt again, smiling mischievously. “Let's get you to come for me, then,” he says, re-entering her folds — still plenty wet and wanting, possibly more so than when he denied her earlier. His other hand moves to himself, working both of them back up to a wordless stream of pants and moans.

“Sylvain,” Dorothea manages, pulsing against his fingers. “Kiss me, please,” she whines. “I want you right here when I– when I'm—”

“Of course, Thea,” he cuts in, crashing his face desperately into hers — his own pleasure is slurring his words and reducing him to a sloppy mess. They may as well both be tied up right now. Dorothea's euphoric cries echo into him as his body collapses into her trembling form, warmth swelling around them as they ride out their respective orgasms. Only when their voices subside and he feels Dorothea's stomach slowly expanding and collapsing beneath the steady undulation of his own breath does Sylvain unhook his lips from hers; he then trails wet kisses along the edge of her jaw and down her neck, shifting back until he can rest his head comfortably against her bosom.

She hums a slow, soothing melody he thinks he's heard before, maybe from one of their previous encounters. “Thank you,” she sings, as Sylvain wraps his arms around her. In the calming air, with their physical needs appropriately met, his thoughts slowly rouse themselves from the back of his mind.

“It's interesting,” he mumbles into her chest.

Dorothea pants lightly, chin tilting down to look at him. “What is?”

His grip on her loosens and he straightens to a seat, running a hand through her hair. “That you're so willing to submit yourself to the whims of a god, when that's exactly what earned you your divinity in the first place.”

Her eyes narrow curiously. “My…”

“Your ascension, Dorothea,” he specifies, continuing to twine her curls around his finger. His eyes meet hers. “The circumstances that robbed you of a full mortal life.”

“Sylvain…” she warns.

He chuckles, stroking her cheek affectionately; the muscles of Dorothea’s face are noticeably tense now. “I… remembered something recently,” he begins. “There’s so much in my head, memories and knowledge accumulated over eternities. It’s easy to lose track. But you… I feel bad to have forgotten, really.”

She wriggles in her restraints, intensity building in her stare. “Whatever it is you think you know, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“At least listen to my story before you make judgments about its validity,” Sylvain huffs. His hand trails down to her stomach, where the wrinkled fabric of her slip is still bunched up, leaving her cunt on full display. He tugs the hem down courteously. “You said you’d be my plaything, didn’t you? Humor me.”

Again she watches him cautiously, but interest gets the better of her. “Alright.”

With a delighted giggle, Sylvain kisses her neck gently. “Excellent,” he rumbles into the vulnerable skin. Smoothly, he straddles her waist, gazing at her longingly. She is gorgeous, and there's a novel emotion on her face he’s never seen. A raw, intense one that's making him feel crazy, uninhibited. Dangerous. “You’re so beautiful,” he remarks softly, wistfully.

“Get to the point, Sylvain.”

Reactive irritation ripples across his face, an unwanted but inevitable sensation. “Don’t rush me,” he says. He tilts her chin side to side, examining her clinically. “I happen to know this face of yours has always been irresistible. And not just to other humans… gods and goddesses alike were enamored with you. A renowned opera singer with a voice so magnificent that everyone wondered if you weren’t at least a demi-god already.”

Dorothea swallows, but appears to have no further comment. Sylvain cocks his head playfully to the side, wagging a finger. “But no, you were a bonafide human, weren’t you?” he lilted. “And for a god to fall for a human… that tends to end disastrously.”

“You would know,” she adds accusingly.

There's that twitch of annoyance at his temple again; he hums the feeling away. “I may have broken some mortal hearts,” he admits. “But I knew what I was doing, and I knew how to diffuse the situation without incident.” He takes a deep breath, knowing he can't back down from telling the story from this point onward. His hands rest lightly on Dorothea's waist. “I can’t say the same of Ferdinand.”

If he weren’t already confident he was speaking the truth, her indignant gaze is enough to confirm it. “Go on,” she says.

He clutches his palm to chest, shaking his head dramatically. “Oh, the sweet sun god, so blissfully enraptured by Dorothea! He could have taken on the guise of a mortal and run to you, as most gods before had done.”

“As you’ve done, many times.”

“So very stuck on that point, aren’t we?” Sylvain asks, shoulders slumping forward. Her reprimands never fail to amuse him. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous. You needn’t be.”

The levity in his voice does nothing to ease Dorothea's frown. “Moving on,” he continues with a smile. “Ferdinand wasn’t satisfied with descending to a lower plane to be with you — he wished to have you in the realm of heaven. He believed you belonged here, that there was some mistake made when you were born mortal. Can you blame him?”

He pauses to heave a sigh. “Of course, bringing a mortal to heaven is… frowned upon. Very difficult, and very risky if one were to get caught… by Seteth or, even worse, by Seiros. Ferdinand didn’t care, and he managed to make an arrangement.”

Again Dorothea looks like she has a million things to say, but none of it bubbles to her lips. “He was allowed one day with you, once a year, in a well-hidden grove on the divine plane,” Sylvain explains. “And you would forget the experience each time you returned to the human world.” He pauses, running his hands up and down her torso. “How am I doing so far?”

She rolls her eyes. “Should I not wait until your story is over?”

“Such a good listener,” he says, resisting the urge to kiss her. She looks like she might bite him if he tried. “I’m sure you were pleasant company back then, too.” Luckily, she won't have to forget this meeting, he thinks. Though with the way she’s glaring at him, he’s wondering if he’d prefer that alternative.

“The sun god appeared perfectly content with his deal, happy even with what little time he was afforded. The self-control of a saint, really — or so one would have thought,” he tells her. “Ferdinand was plotting in secret, devising a plan to make you the goddess you deserved to be. Sneaking into Manuela’s stores, he procured an elixir that, over time, would make you immortal. He administered it to you slowly, over several years. Several meetings.”

Her gaze wanders. “Who would have thought it would be so easy to achieve immortality?”

He crosses his arms. “Who indeed,” he mumbles. “But Manuela eventually realized that some of her inventory was missing. She confronted Ferdinand and informed him that he’d made a grave mistake. While the elixir would, in fact, make you immortal, it would not make you a god. It would not grant you access to heaven."

“An intended blessing turned out to be a curse,” Dorothea breathes.

Sylvain nods. “To ascend to the divine plane, you would require a domain. As the situation stood, you were doomed to walk the earth unable to die, and unable to grow old. A woeful fate, I would imagine.”

“It’s not so different from being a god,” she points out with a wry shrug. “Less power, but…”

A sardonic smile curls his lips. There is an unexpected spark to her words. “Do you think all gods cursed, Dorothea?”

She groans, exasperated. “I don’t know, Sylvain. You certainly treat your immortality like a burden.”

“As do you,” he retorts.

“Whatever,” she shoots back dismissively. “Your story is nearly done, I would imagine. Go on and tell me how I traded one woeful fate for another.”

His grin only grows wider. “Gladly!” he exclaims. “Our good lady Manuela came to your rescue. She actually had two domains at the time — enchantment was a secondary aspect, while music was her first. She felt sympathy for you, a singer like herself, who’d found herself unwillingly entangled in the affairs of gods. An undeserved ordeal.”

Dorothea proves still full of bitter judgment. “That tends to happen when gods meddle in the affairs of mortals, doesn’t it?”

He lets the commentary sit and continues on. “The goddess of music and enchantment was generous enough to pass one of her domains on to you, allowing you to join our illustrious pantheon.” His hand sweeps through the air, motioning to her. “And the rest, of course, is history.”

“Well, there’s a small detail you forgot,” Dorothea points out.

Sylvain blinks, thinking. “Oh,” he realizes. “You must be talking about mortal desire. That was an interesting piece to the story, wasn’t it?”

Her mouth twists in displeasure. “Sure. ‘Interesting’, why not.”

“That one manifested on its own, didn’t it?” he asks, lids fluttering as he scans her up and down. “Makes sense that the woman everyone wanted would embody the very thing that made her a goddess.”

Her next words are practically hissed, her teeth gritted. “Are you going to point out the irony again?” The earlier spark has caught into a vibrant flame.

“Dorothea, I—”

“Congratulations, Sylvain,” she bites. “You know my whole story. You love knowing everything, don’t you?” Her hands, still dangling from the cuffs, ball into fists. “You love to divine all the secrets everyone’s hiding, without ever sharing your own. We wouldn’t want anyone to know too much about you, would we?”

“Dorothea—”

She pulls against the straps. “Let me _go_ , Sylvain. I’m sick of playing,” she whines.

Sylvain looks down guiltily. With a snap of his fingers the restraints click open, but he remains seated on her lap, bracing for what’s next: a slap, or a biting remark, whatever the wheel of fate has in store for him this time. He’s been through this before. But there’s no violent reaction, not yet: Dorothea brings her arms close to her body, massaging her wrists and shaking out her legs, then touches his chin, prompting him to look at her. There's hurt in her eyes. He resists taking hold of her, his hands tingling with the urge to embrace her, to kiss her, to go back to a few minutes ago before he brought up this stupid topic. “There’s one more thing,” he says. “Please.”

“Get off me,” Dorothea growls.

He obliges with a sigh, and Dorothea makes her way to the edge of the bed. “That deal Ferdinand struck,” he says, voice low and monotone. “Who do you think helped him sneak you up here?”

She pauses, her legs dangling over the floor. Realization washes over her face. “He was in love,” she mumbles, turning back to look at Sylvain. “Of course.”

“Yeah. It was me,” he confirms with a nod, crawling closer to Dorothea. “I told him no, repeatedly, and he begged me until I made that offer. It was so miniscule, so insignificant, I thought for sure he’d give up. Surely no mortal was worth so much.” Shivers cascade over his body as the words spill out, a secret that no one but he and Ferdinand have shared until now. “A meeting once a year, and she forgets each time? Who would take that?”

“A lovestruck fool would, apparently,” she says, setting her feet on the rug and rising to a stand. “I suppose you’ve never been so inclined, have you, Sylvain?”

“Neither have you,” he points out.

Dorothea ignores the assessment. “Ironic,” she spits instead, pacing across the floor. Then, with a shrug: “So your dissuasions backfired.”

He shakes his head, focusing back on the recollection. “I didn’t know what he was doing. I… I suppose I recognized it as meddling, but I never imagined those consequences.” He massages his temple, focusing on keeping his breath steady as Dorothea stretches her limbs in front of him, finally turning around with an implacable expression.

“Why are you telling me all this, Sylvain?” she asks tiredly. “Bringing up the past, complicating a perfectly good…” She struggles to find the words, as if realizing she doesn't know what they are. Neither does he — the rules of their arrangement, like the both of them, have never been clean-cut.

“Because you deserve to know,” he replies with a sigh. “Because I’m starting to get sick of having all these secrets you think I love so much. And if it means you want nothing more to do with me, then I'd rather—”

“Is that what you think is happening right now, Sylvain?” Dorothea interjects, covering her face with her palm. “You think I want nothing to do with you?” She steps over to him, placing her hands on his shoulders and holding his gaze. “I’m annoyed. Irritated. That’s it. All this about me, about what I went through... knowing you, it was bound to come up eventually. Not everything has to be so dramatic all the time, especially when I’ve got all of eternity to wade through.”

“I…” his lips part but he cannot find the words.

There is something resembling a kind smile on her face. “This has been weighing on you, clearly. Thank you for sharing it with me.” He only stares back at her blankly, overwhelmed by the compassion she's showing him. “What, do you have more secrets to unload on me?” she asks softly. She sits down beside him and takes one of his hands in hers, running her thumb along his knuckles. “I’ll listen.”

A long quiet stretches out between them as Dorothea continues to hold his hand, and Sylvain swirls contemplations around in his head before hesitantly settling on the one that's been burning a hole in his stomach. “I suppose there’s one thing,” he says, placing his other hand atop hers. His words are slow and uncertain. “I… always have this consuming need to know everything. I've been around so long that I practically do know everything.” His hands shake and he looks her earnestly in the eyes. “Ancient knowledge, Dorothea. It's a lot to handle!”

“Yes…” she mumbles, a hint of concern in her eyes. Possibly fear.

“And I know _love_ ,” he says with a huff, the feel of the word on his tongue too foreign for a concept he understands so well. Too well, to the point it's lost all meaning. “Love is… chaos. Love is everywhere, in everything. I can sense it wherever it is. I see a _lot_ of crazy stuff.” Mostly the lengths people will go to sate lust, to experience love — and the lies they will tell along the way.

She slips her hand out from his in favor of threading her fingers gently through his hair. “Sylvain…”

“But you asked me,” he starts, unconsciously leaning into her touch, his eyes softening as he meets hers. “Do you remember what you asked me?” It was surely an innocent curiosity that had struck her, an offhand comment back when they first became more intimately acquainted. He's genuinely expecting her to have forgotten.

To his surprise, Dorothea recalls perfectly. “About whether… about whether you'd be able to sense someone loving you,” she mumbles, her fingertips now tracing the curve of his cheek.

“Yes.”

“You said you couldn't.”

“I said I don't _think_ I could,” he specifies.

Her hand slides down his neck, over his shoulder and back into her lap. “And that’s different how?”

He chuckles nervously. “Because I don't actually know the answer,” he begins. “I… I always assumed that I could sense it.” An easy, simple hypothesis, accepted readily and never questioned. Why had he never questioned it?

Dorothea tilts her head in thought. “But then you would know, right?” she asks, mouth twisting in uncertainty. “Uh, know that you can… know,” she tries. “This is getting confusing.”

“Unless I'd never sensed it before,” he mutters, gaze dropping down. “If I'd never sensed someone loving me.”

He waits. Dorothea inhales slowly, then: “ _Oh_.” A hand touches lightly to his chin, guiding him back to look at her eyes. “Sylvain, you… you think no one has ever loved you?”

“Look,” he says with a sharp, laborious exhale. “I know this sounds ridiculous to you, when you’ve been loved by so many—”

“Sylvain,” Dorothea chides, cradling his face in both her hands, holding him close to her. “I've met enough gods to know that you've been loved. The real deal.”

Butterflies swarm in his stomach as he swallows slowly. “I… I've been told I was loved before. I just never believed them.” There's not enough time to dwell on all the instances, to re-examine each gut-wrenching relationship. “Surely some of them were false alarms, but… at least one could have been telling the truth.” Even as he says it, even with Dorothea's assurance, he finds it difficult to believe. His heart and mind have been set a certain way for so long.

“This is a lot,” Dorothea breathes, her face unbearably close.

“I'm sorry,” Sylvain says.

Her thumbs smooth over his face, her head shaking slowly. “Don't… Don't apologize. You know how the rest of us feel, now,” she points out with a gentle smile.

He laughs, tilting forward so their foreheads meet. “I guess I do, huh?” he says, fingers fidgeting with the cloth of her robe. His limbs feel weightless, a body drifting through space; but the goddess before him exudes a consuming gravity, luring him in. A resonant force that collapses his higher dimensions and multitudes into a single, basic state.

Dorothea closes what little distance remains between them and kisses him, long and slow, the remnants of her earlier arousal evident in the lingering heat of her lips. It’s tempered now, relaxed and deliberate; her smooth palms stroke Sylvain’s cheeks and push away a stream of tears he didn’t realize had begun to fall. From nowhere he hears a light rattling like rain, accompanied by a slow violin. Dorothea’s mouth leaves his when the music fades in, her face flushing more than seems necessary. “For a very long time, I felt like something was wrong with me,” she says, so softly he nearly doesn’t hear it over the creaking melody.

“What?” he asks, curling his arms around her. She’s shaking.

“As a human, when I couldn’t bring myself to accept all the adoration and praise I received,” she explains, gripping his sides like he’ll slip away otherwise. “And as a god, unable to accept what I’d become, and what I'd lost. I felt so ungrateful — I’m a deity! I gained power, time and more life than I ever did as a mortal, but—”

“Hey,” Sylvain interrupts, running a hand through her hair. “Don’t beat yourself up, Thea. I’ve got more than enough self-destructive habits for the both of us.”

She sighs, her nose scrunching in displeasure. “You shouldn’t accept pain so readily,” she says. Then, stifling a giggle as she squeezes his shoulders: “You deserve to be happy. If the manifestation of love can’t figure that out, where’s the hope for the rest of us?” Her eyes lock with his, round and bright as the summer, and her touch travels down his bare chest. “I… I want to make you happy,” she mumbles. “Or at least make you feel good,” she adds, more confidently.

He nods in understanding and Dorothea tugs him back to her, kissing him with the same heightened passion she demonstrated on the balcony. Sylvain moans as her tongue rolls against the inside of his mouth, desperately trying to follow her as she drags him to the center of the mattress. Her hands roam over him, into his hair and around his waist and before Sylvain knows it he is on his back, Dorothea’s hands pinning his wrists to the bed and her body radiating heat as she looms above him. “My turn to be bossy,” she whispers, loosening her grip as her hips shift back. “Stay nice and still,” she says with an authoritative glint in her eyes, and Sylvain happily obeys. No cuffs required.

Dorothea plants kisses down his chest and his ribs, moving steadily lower until her fingers tap lightly against his hip bones. Next he feels the flesh of her inner thighs as she straddles him, rolling to a seat and eyeing him mischievously. She shrugs her robe off, then pulls her slip up and over her head so he can behold her nude form: wide hips, a slightly protruding belly and a set of round, perky breasts that bounce as she sways on top of him.

There is a tickling sensation as Dorothea’s hands slip under the cloth of his pants, sliding the fabric down slowly as she moves backward, peeling the cloth away until she’s at his feet. She tosses the garment away and smiles as she admires his nakedness, gaze settling on his cunt. “You really are delightful,” she purrs, taking hold of his ankles and guiding his legs outward, knees bending and falling askew on the mattress as she spreads the muscled limbs apart. When she’s satisfied with the arrangement, she maneuvers her head between his legs, propped on her elbows as she hovers inches from his warmth.

With a hum she runs a finger over his labia, Sylvain’s anticipation rushing from his lips in the form of a quick, sharp exhale. She explores deeper into his slick, fanning him open with her hands and bringing her agape, expectant mouth to the exposed folds, circling his entrance slowly with her tongue and turning his sigh into a trembling whine. “Thea,” he huffs, a strong hand curling into her hair and rocking her closer, her nose nudging against his clit. Her tongue flicks across and into his cunt, building up to a steady pace as her arms slide under his legs to better angle his hips toward her.

She laps enthusiastically, transitioning from twirls to long, upward strokes, eyes flicking up to meet his just as the tip of her tongue presses ever-so-slightly against his clit, gaze narrowing victoriously when she sees the way his face contorts with pleasure. Even as Dorothea’s mouth is occupied with her task and she begins to lavish more and more attention on his clit, Sylvain hears a chorus streaming into his ears, a disembodied aria with a string accompaniment. Her fingers join her mouth, pumping deftly and rhythmically as Sylvain's legs clamp against her.

“Thea, I—” His words stutter as she drives her fingers deeper. “Fuck, that's good,” he moans, his hands making a tangled mess of her hair. As his body begins to tense with the telltale throes of a release, he wonders if Dorothea will stop, paying him back for the torture he put her through earlier.

There is no such retribution; she carries on diligently, keeping her face and fingers buried in him until he is left shuddering and sighing, back arching against the bed. Quiet murmurs fall from his lips and Dorothea withdraws her hand, smearing slick across his bare thigh and up to his stomach, interlacing wet fingers with his while her mouth continues to lick up the aftermath of Sylvain's climax. “Stars above,” he swears. “Come here,” he adds, urging her head away and up, tugging her arm affectionately.

“Feeling better?” she asks as she crawls languidly over, watching his heaving chest slow back to a steady rise and fall. On a deep inhale Sylvain takes hold of her waist and expedites her approach, latching onto her lips with a needy hunger. Dorothea squeals happily, their bare skin pressing warmly together as she settles by his side.

“Yes,” he replies, holding her close. “But I should be asking you that.”

As an answer she pulls him into another kiss, sighing as Sylvain's fingers dig into her hip before making their way to cup her ass. “I'm doing great,” she sings. “Just no more unprompted stories, alright?”

Sylvain hums in understanding, hoping she can't hear the lingering guilt in his voice. He jostles her hips playfully, eyes narrowing with mischievous intent. “Got it. In that case, I have some more ideas for how we can pass the time,” he purrs, sliding his hand casually between Dorothea's legs. “If you still have the energy, of course,” he adds, watching her struggle to keep a straight face as he teases her entrance slowly. She certainly feels prepared enough for more.

“That sounds good,” she mumbles, hips rocking slowly over his fingers. “What did you have in mind?”

His eyes widen excitedly and he pops to a seat, rolls off the bed and scurries back to the wardrobe. When he returns Dorothea is lounging seductively across the bed, her head propped up by her elbow while her free hand twirls a thick strand of hair. Enthusiasm ripples across her face when she sees the paraphernalia held in Sylvain's hands: a double-sided strap-on in one, a bottle of lubricant in the other. “I was hoping I could wear it, but if you want to—”

"No, you go ahead this time," Dorothea answers, rising to her knees and shuffling towards the edge of the bed, beckoning him over. "Let me help you with that," she says, happily taking the strap from his hands and positioning the shorter end at his entrance. Sylvain pops open the vial and Dorothea slathers the slippery substance onto her palms, then coats the toy thoroughly. They exchange smiles as she inserts the bulb into his cunt; Sylvain feels a pleasant fullness, leaning down to kiss her once he's taken it all the way in. He follows Dorothea as she retreats further onto the bed.

Gracefully she lounges, nestled into a mound of pillows with her legs wide open, waiting for him to fuck her. Dorothea appears relaxed and regal, seated in powerful silence; even her music has ceased, an inviting absence that she tempts Sylvain to fill. With her wordless stare she commands him, a sultry and expectant veneer coating her emerald eyes. He almost can't believe she's the same woman who submitted to him earlier, but he's glad for it; her adaptable nature plays well with his own multi-faceted mutability.

He kneels between her thighs, slowly inching forward until the strap is pressed gently against Dorothea's cunt. Her legs curl possessively around his waist as he teases the shaft along her folds, rocking slowly to get used to the weight and feel of the toy. It stimulates his own insides with each shift forward. “Ready?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies, tilting her body upwards eagerly. Sylvain plants his hands on either side of her and maneuvers the tip to her entrance, taking his time going in and watching Dorothea's face twist in satisfaction. Once he's halfway he thrusts forward, hard, smiling at the sudden gasp he draws from her — he still has some semblance of control, it seems. “Oh, _yes_ ,” she sighs, her hands joining her legs in pulling her to him, palms pressed into his mid-back and guiding his subsequent thrusts. “Proud of yourself, there?” she asks, making him fully aware of the smug grin that's plastered across his face.

“Should I not be?” he teases, admiring the cute way Dorothea's eyes roll. Rather than answering, her hand finds the back of his neck and pulls his mouth to hers, grinding her hips forward against his length as she does so. Sylvain chews her bottom lip, matching her roughness, pumping faster and tasting the sweet moans that resonate against the inside of his cheeks. “Dorothea,” he mumbles, his own cunt growing hot as he clenches around his end of the strap. With a huff she breaks away from his kiss and falls back onto the pillows, hair spreading wildly out behind her. The flush cascading over her cheeks, paired with the way her chest heaves from the force of Sylvain's movements only builds his pleasure higher.

“Aw, you're coming undone for me again,” he says, guiding her hands to support his chest as one of his own follows the contour of her body all the way down to her clit, fingers moving quickly in time with his hips. Dorothea grits her teeth at the sensation, eyes narrowing with a terrifying determination as she scrapes her nails against his skin.

“Keep– going–” she stutters, pulling their bodies flush together. “Fuck, Sylvain!”

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, working to push her across the imminent finish line — her cry is loud in his ear as her body convulses beneath him. “Syl…” she whines, arms wrapped tightly over his glistening shoulder blades, his hand playing lazily over her folds even after he slides out of her. He half expects to be rolled onto his back, for her to push past the momentary bliss and insist on more, but instead she finally settles into stillness, stroking his hair. “I think that's it for me,” she sighs, almost apologetically.

“Rest, then,” Sylvain whispers.

The suggestion is met by a contemplative hum. “No, I should go,” Dorothea mumbles.

“So soon?” he asks, rolling to lie next to her, their shoulders knocking together. Their meetings don’t commonly stretch on for long once both their needs have been satisfied; if she wants to leave, he won't stop her. Still — and perhaps it's simply the euphoria lingering — his stomach drops unexpectedly at the prospect of her departing.

She shifts to face him. “There's a lot on my mind, Sylvain. You brought up things I haven't thought about in… in ages.”

“Oh,” he sighs. She's cross with him, he imagines, but he resists the urge to share this theory. Instead he touches her arm lightly. “You're welcome to stay and think here,” he offers. “I… I'd like you to stay, actually,” he adds. His mouth clamps shut, overcome with nerves as he processes his own request.

“Sylvain.”

He winces, though he's not sure what he's bracing for. “Yes?”

She inches closer, lips agonizingly near. “I refuse to be treated like one of those mortal women you're always chasing,” she says, her breath warm and inviting as it scatters goosebumps across his skin.

“What does that have to do with my asking you to stay?”

“Nothing,” she chimes, unsettlingly cheerful. “I'm just warning you.”

“Consider me warned,” he says, still puzzled and a touch afraid. Perhaps he likes that she makes him feel this way, uncertain and at odds; nothing is simple with her — except maybe the sex. And he’s not interested in the latter, right now. “But will you stay?”

With the way she pauses, tilting her head side to side and regarding him with a sly smile, he thinks she must enjoy making him wait. “I suppose I could,” she finally decides. “You said something earlier about light conversation? Certainly we can find a topic not involving divine deals and secret plots.”

Sylvain laughs, too excited to find a clever quip. “Anything you want,” he offers.

“What a gentleman,” she says, and drapes her arm around his side, cozying up to his chest. “But honestly, right now I think I'd like to sleep,” she murmurs.

With the warmth of her body pressed against him, a nap is sounding appealing. “Yeah, alright,” he tells her, pulling her closer. “How about a lullaby?”

“If you insist,” she sighs into his skin, but Sylvain doesn’t miss the self-satisfied lilt, the confidence she has in delivering a performance. A sonorous note rumbles from her lips, persisting even as her vocal cords cease their work. It morphs into a short, meditative melody, looping lyrics that cradle their prone forms and settle the still-firing synapses of his mind.

He resists the urge to decode this song, focusing instead on the unfathomably satisfying feeling it elicits, on the elegant simplicity of its time signature. It is everything and it is nothing, two opposing attributes that nonetheless harmonize. Sylvain's own restless pendulum — oscillating between simple and complex, easy and difficult, known and unknown — begins to match Dorothea’s internal metronome. Her relaxed heartbeat thumps against him as she slips into unconsciousness, unbothered by paradoxical, contradictory states.

When he, too, falls asleep, they don’t bother him either.

**Author's Note:**

> Do I enjoy the catharsis of writing Sylvain self-sabotaging, slowly opening up to people cares about, and stumbling blindly into emotional intimacy? Absolutely. Probably too much. There must be a kink for this that I simply don’t know the name of yet. If you know what it is, please let me know.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’m also on Twitter: @riahk


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